


Terminal South

by veronamay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, First Kiss, Flying, Goodbyes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-20
Updated: 2010-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no <i>time</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terminal South

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [moony](http://moony.livejournal.com)'s [SHERLOCK KISSING MEME](http://moony.livejournal.com/1616531.html).

There's no _time_.

The gate is closing, the plane is leaving and somewhere out there Moriarty is waiting, teasing and tempting with his obscenely intimate little texts and the late-night calls in obscure ancient languages. He spends hours translating, just to _understand_ , and it makes John's eyes go dark with something he doesn't like, makes John's shoulders slump and his sleep thin, but he can't stop can't let it rest and the plane is leaving and he has to _go_.

The last message had read, _Come out to play or I'll kill him, darling, just to see the look on your face_.

The look on John's face right now is heartbreaking. Assuming one has a heart to be broken.

"Go," John says suddenly, viciously. "It'll leave without you if you don't, so will you just--bloody well _go_."

He realises they've been standing here staring at each other for nigh on ten minutes while the other passengers file their way past: two silent islands in a blithering sea of humanity. He immediately wants to strangle himself for entertaining such a banal thought. But John is still staring, face worn and drawn and unhappy, and the thought is just a blind to distract him from the problem at hand.

He can't seem to move.

"John," he says absently, the way he's said it a thousand times. "I ... can't."

John understands, the way he always does.

"Yes, you can," he grinds out, eyes bright and hard. "You can and you will, because he is _not_ going to win. Even if I have to frogmarch you onto the bloody plane myself."

He almost smiles at that, and yes, there it is. John is the problem, because he has to leave and he can't leave, and right now Moriarty could sashay past with a wink and a smile and a bag full of explosives and he'd be unable to look away from John long enough to do anything about it.

That's what snaps him out of his ... _trance_ , or whatever it is. The thought that he is his own greatest liability right now, in this moment, in his--their--distraction. John is right; he needs to go. He never gives John enough credit for being right about these things.

"Yes. All right," he murmurs, still--inevitably--staring. "I'm going."

John's face is twisting into something that should be a smile but isn't; he's leaning over, picking up the black carry-on and handing it to him, physically turning him to face the gate (behind him, like he's trying to deny its existence). John gives him a push to get him moving; he stumbles, then muscle memory kicks in and he's walking, boarding pass clutched forgotten in his hand, not looking back because there isn't any _time_ and he has to leave now, now, now.

He reaches the gate, the last passenger to board (they must be holding the flight for him by now), and then he stops. Drops the bag. Shoves the boarding pass at the attendant and whirls around, striding back to where John stands, hands fisted in his jacket pockets, stoic and silent and alone.

It's not a loving kiss. There's love in it, certainly; he's not such a fool as to deny it, not anymore. It's wild and brutal and scarring, nonetheless: marking, claiming, _mineminemine_ ; his hands clenched tight around John's head, John's teeth drawing blood from his bottom lip. It's fierce and painful and absolutely merciless on both sides, and startling not for the fact that it's their first kiss, but that neither of them seems to have expected anything other than this.

There's a gentle cough at his left shoulder: the gate attendant, sympathetic, reluctant to interrupt. He reels back from John's warmth and spins away, stooping to gather his carry-on without stopping on his way through the gate. He doesn't look back. He knows John is already gone.

First class is all but empty, not that it would have mattered. He slings his bag at his feet and slumps into the seat, seeing nothing, ears full of white noise. His pulse is racing at approximately a hundred and eighty beats per minute, and his bitten-split lip feels like it's on fire.

He can still feel the shape of John's face in his hands.

 _Come out, come out, wherever you are._

This will be over very, very soon.


End file.
